Rippers and tea
by Meriarty
Summary: Aziraphale knew a few things for sure in the 19th century. Put it all together and you get a story worth a place in his bookshop. Also, Being Human and Sherlock Holmes references.
1. Knowledge

**Because of Susan and her obsession with Jack, Hal and Good Omens. Bless her fangirling soul. Anyways, enjoy. Multi-chapter and all of that.**

* * *

Aziraphale knew a few things for sure in the 19th century and all of these are relevant for this story;  
First of all, he was constantly being followed by Crowley, who had changed his name to Anthony Crowley because who on _Earth_ -pun not intended- was called Crowley? Why that was*, he didn't know.  
Second, he was sure he loved the culture in the 19th century. The literature, the fashion. The angel could spend days just reading. That was one of the perks of not having to sleep, eat or actually breathe.  
Another thing was that Aziraphale knew Jack the Ripper, which he didn't actually know yet. He was yet to find out.

The last story was funny. Not 'haha' funny, as Crowley called it, but well, simply difficult to explain. You see, the angel's best friend** was a demon, and demons usually don't befriend other demons*** but Crowley the demon did have a friend who was _interested_ in demonic business. Honestly, sometimes Aziraphale couldn't and wouldn't wrap his head around it. It was all so very complicated. Angelic business was simpler. At least, that is what he hoped. Anyway, about Crowley's interested-in-demonic-business friend; He was a vampire. Satan's experiment. All very neat, he'd found. It had started as a deal but had simply evolved in something way bigger than the Old Ones. Besides, they weren't that old. Aziraphale was way older. At least 6000 years. There were days where he had lost count.  
Lord Harry Yorke was one of these Old Ones. Not that he was really subtle about it and all. He liked to show off this title to then strike and kill his lover-slash-victim. Crowley had once told Aziraphale in a drunken mood that he had a list of all the remaining Old Ones. After another whiskey and Aziraphale metaphorically batting his eyelashes at the demon, the beans got spilled. The list wasn't too impressive. At all. But fair's fair. Heaven's only had a limited number of prophets - one per time, and a new one would come when the other one had died - so he was the last one the judge.

Crowley was, well, _Crowley_. The demon would constantly hang around the angel like the curious toddler that he was. The thing was that Aziraphale always pretended to mind whereas in reality, he did not at all. Honesly, he had learnt to live with him. Which wasn't too odd, seeing as they'd been together**** for 6000 years, give or take a few. They had an Arrangement, which covered a part of their... Relation. And nowadays he would _always_ 'bug' Aziraphale. More than usual, that is. Like yesterday, when he'd shown up incredibly drunk, in a way that would have been deadly for humans, and nearly unable to talk. It took ages before the angel had finally been able to make something from the waterfall of words that seemed to be _streaming_ past his lips. Apparently, he'd practically bathed in alcohol and had then proceeded to go to er- visit the ladybirds. How charming. Crowley had been so far gone that he had forgotten how to actually turn sober again. One thing lead to another - not in that way, you creep - and Aziraphale had ended up on the couch, and Crowley in the angel's bed. It took hours for said angel to remember he didn't actually need to sleep, so he got up and went back to reading the manuscript with a cup of tea.  
A few weeks ago, Aziraphale had another good friend; John. Dark hair, light skin and a sensible taste in dressing. Though when Crowley had stepped by unannounced in the year of 1892 and caught John and Azirphale getting too friendly - While they were just exchanging books - for the demon's liking, he pointed out that John was very similar to Crowley's current body. Ever since, Aziraphale had an aunt that needed to be taken care of whenever John wanted to meet the blonde man.

Angel's had always had a taste for the finer things. They were simply born-slash-made with it. But in the 19th century, it was just so incrediby beautiful. And there was lots of tea. Lots of it. Another one of these fine things. Tea parties were one of these rare situations that occured where Aziraphale would leave to socialize. Those were the times Crowley wouldn't come along and bug the angel. And when he did, the demon would either make obnoxious noises or slip an excessive amount of alcohol in both of their tea cups so they would end up discussing all things biblical, i.e krakens, what seemed to remain their favourite topic.  
Another things was the fashion. The clothing. It was 'stylish' and sophisticated. If you knew the right people with the right clothes. And there was one thing the angel would never admit; Crowley looked - pardon his French - bloody incredible in a waistcoat and tophat. But then again; Who didn't? It was proper and that is what Aziraphale lived for, really. Besides doing good and all of that angelic business. Another thing about this era was that Aziraphale became the patron angel of tea after practically overdosing on tea. Apparently, tea can be pretty lethal when drinking 203 cups an hour while getting caught up in another ancient manuscript. They'd - the other angels - made fun of them after Aziraphale had appeared at the gate. Ashamed and every emotion similar to that, he was when the other angels couldn't stop laughing. Especially Gabriel. He nearly needed a new body himself. The blonde angel received the title of patron angel of tea after the metaphorical dust had settled. He had also received the title of patron angel of chocolate after he had invented it and needed a new body because he had gotten too fat to move. Angelic metabolism hadn't been invented yet at that time. Gabriel understood this, he was the one to invent that part before stealing Aziraphale's chocolate recipe. It was centuries later when he had finally decided that he was going to share this treat with everyone else. Aziraphale wanted some credit and got the title.

So far so good. Until Jack the Ripper had entered London. He had randomly started killing innocent women. Aziraphale loved London. He took it personal. And if angel's take something personal, you better buckle up with some angel blades... Because Heaven was about to break loose.

* * *

*The part where Crowley followed Aziraphale around all the time, that was. Not the name part. That, Aziraphale understood.

** Who was practically forced on him.

*** Trust issues and all of that. Why couldn't they all just get along, you ask? What part of 'demon' do you not get?

**** Not as in together-togeher.. At least, that's what the pair thought. Their relation was very complicated and platonic and not romantic. At all. Don't ever believe any other story besides this accurate one.


	2. The life of Aziraphale, death of Crowley

**A/N: I'm actually doing a serious attempt to write something with more than 500 words. And I obviously don't own anything. Except maybe Victor, but he'd never admit that, really.  
****Here goes nothing.**

* * *

"Wow," Crowley thought, blinking several times. "I don't remember Earth being this dark... What did I miss?" The demon took a deep breath even though he didn't _actually_ need it. "Am I still asleep? Did someone smite me in my sleep? Did the apocalypse happen?"

Either way, he was in desperate need of a drink. Preferably right now. Being asleep for around eighty years would make _you_ thirsty too. But you'd probably be dead. Crowley? Not so much. Perks of being a demon, he figured. The only thing was that when he wanted to sit up, his head hit a wooden plank.

A wooden plank? Oh, bless. He really was dead. Any human would have hyperventilated, but well... Not Crowley.

On the bright side, if he really was dead, maybe he could now finallly answer _the_ question. Where did demons go when they died? Word has it that it was purgatory but really, what are the odds of purgatory being a wooden box? It was big enough for him to prop himself up, supporting his weight by leaning his elbows against the wooden floor. His eyes had started to adjust to the dark and now he could see himself. Mind you, this had happened in those few seconds of sort-of-panic.

"Great," Crowley thought. "A demon can't even sleep for a couple of years without being pressumed dead."

The worst part was that there were little bugs and worms all over him, crawling over his skin, leaving marks of red, half-eaten flesh. Even better. He was going to need to patch himself up. But there was an actual priority; Crowley needed to get out of here. So he laid back onto his back and pressed his feet against the top of the coffin.

"Bugger." He said, remembering that there was probably a thick layer of sand on top of it. This was going to be harder than he thought.

* * *

On the other side of London, Aziraphale was enjoying a nice cup of Crowleyless tea. And he had been for the past thirty years. Honestly, the first ten to twenty years before realization brutally hit, he hadn't even noticed the absence. But when they'd found Crowley 'dead', he had started to actually miss the company after the 'funeral'. So now he had practically buried himself in books, overdosed once on tea, as explained before, and went out not so very often but still enough so that people greeted him even though they had never seen him in the actual bookstore.

And secretly he wondered every day if Crowley would return. "Of course," a voice told him as he took a sip from the 26th cup of tea of that day.

"He loves London." The Voice of Aziraphale said. "The ladybirds are nowhere as good. No supervision and all of that. Good, old-fashioned-"

"I get the point."

"But of course you wouldn't know, would you?"

"I suppose not." Aziraphale shrugged. "It does not interest me as much as it interests Crowley."

"You mean '_interested_'. He has been in that coffin for at least eighty years. The only time was when his neighbour reported a ghost in 1832. And he didn't even bother to visit you." Voice insisted.

"No. Because he was probably disorientated."

It was your typical 1888th Sunday afternoon with Aziraphale and the VoA.

* * *

Victor Lace was a man ahead of his time. At least, he liked to think so. Whereas in reality, he was really just an ordinary bloke. Granted, he was quite handsome, making heads turn wherever he was with his blond hair, chocolate brown eyes and cheekbones that could cut through stone if he smashed his head hard enough into it. - Yes, he would die, but you get the point. - He was very good with words. You see, he was a reporter. And nothing was "off the record". The editors loved it. The readers loved it. The topics hated it.

His father and grandfather had been working for the Star as well, the newspaper in London. Quite sensational as the editor called it, so it was exactly Victor's metaphorical cup of tea. He wasn't really a tea drinker. But really, his grandfather had gotten famous when he had seen a ghost in 1832. Instead of being pronounced mental, they had given him a shot. Turned out he was great with words, so he was offered a contract that was later handed to his son, James Murray, who passed it onto his son Jack after he had become junior editor himself.

But really, beyond the words and stories and behind the pretty face, there was no one special. No one would look over their shoulder when Jack Murray passed. Because that was his real name. But let's face it, everyone would rather read an article written by Victor Lace than Jack Murray.

"Jack," Thomas O'Connell had started.

"It's Victor now," Jack-Now-Victor gave his editor a smile.

"Jack," The editor continued, "It's time to put your sensational words to the test. Are you ready for it?"

"But," Victor licked his lips nervously; He could have sworn he had passed that stage years ago, when he had to write an article on the baker down the street. "I could have sworn I had passed that stage years ago."

"Yeah, I suppose. But, Jack, I'm sure you've heard of Whitechapel? One murder. Nothing new, but just with the right amount of quite special features. Good enough for a sensational story, don't you think?"

_My_, Victor thought, _He really does love the word 'sensational'..._

"So do you think you can write something about him_?" _Thomas Power O'Connell twirled his mustache.

"Sir," Victor-Sometimes-Jack straightened up his in seat, giving his boss a professional nod. "I think I can."

* * *

Bless, Crowley was now dying. Figure of speach and all, but still. It felt quite odd. Both God and Lucifer know where he had been before, and in boxes for Manchester's sake, but honestly... The fact that this time he couldn't get out when he snapped his fingers, wasn't helping the situation. He was all on his own. Plus, he'd just woken up and his demonic powers and all of that sort werent working at full power yet. It kept getting better and better.

_Aziraphale_, he thought, _do you think he misses me? Should I have brought him a souvenir?_

That was when the demon remembered there are no souvenir shops under the ground, at least not here on Earth. Hell was a a completely different story. If you have gone there without bringing your wife something back, like a hand with a diamond ring or something, you'll definitely have to line up for a new body. It had happened to a friendn f Crowley's.

But back to a dying Crowley, who had finally thought of a few options;

- He had to discorporate himself. (This would take a lot of effort and on top ofmthat, he didn't have the right equipment. Then again, who buries someone with that sort of knife?)  
- He was going to have to scream until help came. (Very unlikely, he quickly decided)  
- He just had to suck it up and kick until the wood would crack and then dig his way up.

_Oh, bugger. _Crowley thought,_ Suits ruined already anyway._


	3. A study in books

**A/N; I moved it to the regular Good Omens archive because of uh- Reasons. It's more general now. Harry Yorke is from Being Human though. Just so you know. ^_^**

* * *

The trick was to _hide_. Hide and clean up. Everything, including yourself. And Lord Harry Yorke was rather good at both, even though he had special people to do that for him. Servants, if you wish.

But sometimes you don't _want_ people to clean up after you. Sometimes you want people to see you and _oh_, how often that happened whenever he got terribly bored... Like now. It was 1888 and he was having a blast on his own. The women were literally laying on the streets, waiting for someone to pick them up because there were no supervisors and as if the abbess cared. And collecting the women was exactly what Harry did.

Nowadays the Lord had taken interest in a new game, purely out of utter boredom. The game was to pick up a woman, remove something here or there and well, watch people freak out. Fear happened to be a great incentive. He hadn't started to actually carry out the plan but in theory, Harry found it already amusing and how could it go wrong?

He didn't _actually_ need to practise but he had to know where to put the bodies. Because well, the planning is already part of the fun. It's when imagination kicks in and where there is imagination, there is horror. And really, if you put bodies on random spots where they aren't likely to be found, what's the whole point in all of this?

Life as a clever vampire in the 19th century was, if done right, rather amusing.

* * *

Meanwhile, Aziraphale was once again on the edge of overdosing on tea, because he is that classy. Even dying had to be British. There were times he was convinced that he had gotten drunk on tea.

Frankly, the angel was probably the classiest, most British angel that you would ever be able to find. *

Luckily, someone had walked in right when he wanted to take that fatal sip. "John." Aziraphale exhaled. He hadn't realized he had been holding his breathe but given John was human, he was probably ought to breathe. "Hello." The angel stood up with a smile.

"Aziraphale. Did I startle you?" John quirked his eyebrows, stepping forward as he closed the door to the bookstore carefully.

"Not at all, dear." Aziraphale took off the glasses and gestured John to come in. "How can I help you?" He had started to stop asking whether he could help him at all, because he knew this man and he was kind. Also, he always needed _something._ Anything.

"Actually," The dark-haired man seemed to hesitate before offering Aziraphale a package. "I was hoping you could read this."

_Read_? Aziraphale visibly perked up. Somewhere he was hoping it was something new, but then again, this bookstore had nearly everything that had ever been written down. So he just took the package with contained enthusiasm. "Of course. Where did you get this?" With a careful hand, he got the brown paper off the cover. Or what was supposed to be a cover, because it was mostly a pile of papers.

"Actually, I wrote it myself. It's about the cases with my partner." John shifted on his feet, leaning against the counter.

"Your partner? I have never heard about him." Granted, he never heard of anyone except when they liked tea or books. Preferably both. Azirphale flicked through the pages with his usual interest. This was indeed a new work.

"Yes. We share a place." The man gave him a nod, smiling. "He is rapidly becoming generally better known. Though I am not sure whether that is a good thing or not. I'd invite you but he is insufferable towards new people. Well, _generally_ insufferable.

Aziraphale quirked a brow, mumbling as he read a page. "Oh, dear."

"If you like it; There is more. It's all in my place.

John immediately got an invitation to have a drink and a nice chat about 'more of these interesting new books.

* * *

At last! Crowley had gotten out of his grave. Apparently, the coffin hadn't been that deep into the ground, luckily enough. Maybe that had gone out of style...? If so, he was at least glad he'd had a stylish funeral. He shrugged it off - as well as the dirt and bug - and started to make his way towards the exit of the graveyard.

There was no reason to worry about the state of the world because he had seen** things that would make your toes curl. And frankly, the world didn't look so bad, even though that too depended on how you looked at it. For the rich it was nice. For the poor it was not-so-nice.  
Apparently, half of the people now lived in cities and it was like they had all decided at once to live in _London_ while they were at it because the streets were crawling with people despite the fact that it was in the middle of the day. Weren't people supposed to _work_? Apparently people had actual spare time. Could have been a suggestion during the Spanish Inquisition. They would have invented progression way earlier because they would have had spare time. Without religion, he wouldn't have had a job, but still. You didn't necessarily need to slay people. How on earth were you supposed to- Anyone, moving on. Something Crowley had to do, too.

And hell, it was hot outside. The urge to crawl - pun not intended - back into the cool coffin was nearly impossible to resist. It was probably summer, and the fact that the streets were busy as hell wasn't helping.

Crowley fitted in perfectly with his clothing like this. And that's what he hated. The clothing was so last century and full of holes and smeared with dirt. He needed a change before he'd steal someone else's clothing like the demon that he was. Not that he would actually steal it; He was too keen on tailored clothing.

* * *

"Jack!"

"_Victor_." Victor sighed dramatically, as if people _never_ got it right. They didn't, but that's not the point.

"Jack. I've got a little something else for you." Thomas handed him another piece of paper, which Victor Lace examined.

"But I already was on the murder...?" The reporter frowned, rubbing the back of his head.

" And you still are, my friend." _Friend_? Victor frowned at Thomas' comment. "But I figured this would be something for you, given your grandfather's experience in the '20s."

"'30s, you mean?" Victor started to read the paper. Someone had taken a body from the graveyard. "This is hardly news, sir, if you forgive me-..."

"_Make_ the news, then, _Victor Lace_."

* * *

*That was not because he was also one of the small group that had actually inhabited earth and gone native.

** While utterly drunk, granted, but still.


	4. This is my design

"Are you sure this is alright? I don't mean any disrespect."

Harry glanced at the dark-haired woman next to him, ducking so he wouldn't hit his head. The last thing he needed was disorientation right now; He needed to focus. Not that he would be sloppy otherwise, but the result wouldn't be the same. Annie Chapman laughed quietly to not wake everyone up.

"Don't you worry about it, Harry. It is alright. People walk in and out of here every day."

"Even at five in the morning? I highly doubt that." Harry replied with a toothy but oh so charming grin, making Chapman laugh, patting the man's back.

He was truly wonderful; They'd just met but the man possessed an awful lot of charisma. He was young, late twenties, and absolutely handsome. Dark hair like herself and his eyes held this peculiar gleam. As if there was so much more to him. His lips were beautifully curved in a way that, despite her experience, was actUally quite rare.

"Pardon," The man started, slowly dragging his lips across his lips before he continued, eyes finding the floor for mere seconds. "But is it- True?"

"That what is true, darlin'?" She quirked a brow, though that wasn't what seemed to draw this young man's attention. His eyes were wandering down her body but they stopped at her neck. Nothing new really with her profession.

"That you'd sleep with anyone?" The air had changed like someone had changed the setting. The kind-looking and eloquent man had turned into what seemed to be quite the opposite. His expression had darkened, dim lighting that came from the candles flickered over his face, what even enhanced the tension that had replaced the friendliness between them.

Annie was taken aback for a couple of seconds. "Oh, dear. Are you _interested_ in such methods? I mean no disrespect but you seem-" Of course he was interested. He was a man and this was her job. Simple as that.

Harry grinned, showing off his teeth, although the woman wasn't sure about whether that was on purpose or completely accidental. "_Proper_? Au contraire, I can assure you, Annie Chapman, that I am interested in 'these methods'." He scoffed and took another step forwards. The woman was now trapped between himself and the wall.

"But not only that method." Annie Chapman didn't have time to scream; Her mouth was covered with the man's hand and in one swift movement, he got a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around her neck. "There's something that happens when you suffocate someone," Hal hissed into her ear. He looked perfectly calm, yet with a hint of anger. The woman's eyes widened and her hands went to defend herself, swatting at the dark-haired Lord but he merely laughed at her. "Now, now, I wouldn't-" Before he had finished, she'd punched him square in the face. "Now that was just stupid, you _bitch_." Within a second, Harry had reacted by tightening the grip on her throat. "It is rude to interrupt someone. But then again, a whore like you wouldn't know. Would you?"

The hand that had been holding her body against the wall, arm across her chest, could now be moved to yank at her hair; Annie was now desperately trying to get Harry's hand off her throat, to get the piece of fabric off. "Remind me of what I was telling you?"Harry's eyes wandered up and down her body, tongue flicking out to lick his lips. "Ah. Right. Suffocation. It's beautiful. Skin turns purple, eyes pop as well as veins..." Slowly, Annie's strength was decreasing, leaving her to stare at the man who was standing in front of her, hand around her neck. "But the most beautiful part is something entirely else."

Like he'd drawn the handkerchief from his pocket, he now drew out a knife. It had a lean blade, simple enough to be handled. It seemed to come from a medical collection. But medical instruments are supposed to save people, yet the smirk that matched his body language contradicted that common statement. "The sound of blood,-" He paused to swallow loudly, as if trying to control himself. "The sound of blood rushing through veins is nothing special. Something I am confronted with every day. And I give in, Annie. Don't think you're the first. Don't think you are _special_. You humans always think you are all special."

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Four heartbeats were left for Annie Chapman before Harry dragged the knife across her throat to slid it. A quick move and she simply stared at him, face swollen and eyes wide, making a gurgled noise that was so familiar to him. It was as if they always tried to make him feel guilty. As if. It only made it more pathetic. Hal closed his eyes and listened to sound of the blood, corner of his lips twitched up in a wicked smirk. "Isn't it beautiful, Annie?"

His eyes opened.

Blackness.

* * *

Aziraphale was looking at the dark-haired man in front of him, slowly stirring in his tea. It was unbelievable. How could he be sitting here with him? John was in the back of his shop, looking at the books. He'd chosen the wise path and left the pair alone.

"Crowley,-" Aziraphale started but got interrupted.

"It's like the bloody hell down here. Literally. Everyone has one. Childish. Why don't_ you_ have a servant?"

"Now that would be rather hypocritical of me, wouldn't it?"

"How would that be hypocritical of you? You could have been upper class by now! Just er- Have a servant. He or she can make you tea or your cocao. Female, preferably, because otherwise-"

"Thank you for your input, Crowley dear, but I can make my tea myself, really. It's the most thrilling part of the process. Besides, it's hypocritical because the Christians are trying to abolish slavery. So why would an angel have servants? Aren't _we_ supposed to be servants? _God's_ servants?"

"Warriors, actually. And you're a bloody lousy warrior. You've got to be kidding me.. Bloody irony, it is. And how is a servant a slave? I need a drink. You wouldn't happen to have someone get me one? Isn't that man your servant?"

"Welcome back, Crowley, dear."

* * *

It was beautiful like he had promised Annie.

There's a certain amount of beauty a dead woman holds. The way the crimson liquid was spreading across her torn green dress, that indicated the way he'd brutally murdered her. The garden had become the scene of the crime. He buttoned his shirt - that was smeared with blood - up, took a second handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth clean like any sophisticated and well-mannered Lord would do.

For some reason, the way he killed now was so much more thrilling and provided him exactly what he needed; He'd found that patterns were important. A vital element that was necessary to spread fear. It wasn't like he'd ever get caught.

_Au contraire_. He wanted them to search for him so that they'd realize that they were simply mortal and he _wasn't_. He was an Old One.

Harry took a moment to appreciate the scenery. He'd made an artpiece out of it. People wouldn't have to know it had been him. All they had to know it was him. It was the same person.

Her stomach was cut open. He'd performed the easiest of operations.

Now his pockets were filled with human flesh.

Reproductive organs, to be specific.

There was only so much blood left.

Lord Harry had been thirsty.


End file.
